Days

Some days are shorter than the others
Some longer
Some days make you feel chirpy and light
Others stamp you down with soiled boots
Some days you wake up humming a happy tune…
On others, it seems you did not sleep at all
Some days remind you of sunlight on a paddy field
Or bees around a golden beehive…sweet, light, and bright
Others take you through dingy dark alleys
Stopping by smelly drains and rotten garbage


I wonder if each day would be the same
Would it be better or worse?
Is monotony better than the risks of variety?
Is each day really a gift? Each morning a Christmas?
Probably!
As you open the invisible gift wrap every morning, you frown or you smile
Just like Christmas gifts that you like or hate
Life does not take you Christmas shopping…like your friends do
So you don’t have a say
Take it or leave it
Or cry all you may
Life won’t take you shopping every day.
**********************************************************************************

My latest fancy...

After years of loving the music of Umrao Jaan, Ijaazat and Masoom, I never thought I would drift this far. Guess, it's age...or boredom.

How to find the right Dream?

Most people live their lives trying to find the means to fulfill a dream...
And here I am...living my life trying to find a suitable dream for myself...
Now, where does that place me on the Dream Ladder?? I am not on it...I am not even close to it.

The wise ones who started watering their dream sapling quite early in their lives...are the ones that are now gazing at a fully-grown tree ready to flower and fruit. The even wiser ones (who started even earlier) have probably already eaten a fruit or two...

And here I am...shopping for a seed...in fact window-shopping for that illusive seed that will one day grow into a tree (in case you have already lost me in this greenhouse of imagery...I am still talking about dreams).

Assuming I start late (really late)...is there a chance that I will at least have a dream some day? I mean, I understand that 'fulfilling' a dream needs a lifetime...and considering that I have lost almost half of my lifetime, I would be happy if I can manage to at least ‘have’ a dream (if not fulfill it).

So that's what this is about....trying to find a dream...that may not be achievable...but is fun just 'having'. This is what consumerism has done to me...I like to 'have' things...whether I need it or use it...or ever open the packaging… does not matter.

Before getting further pulled into yet another web of boring imagery (This time 'shopping'...can you believe it? How cheap can I get?)...let me stop for a glass of water.

OK, had a glass…and am back at the dream chase.

So where was I? Ah! Finding the right dream...

If a dream hasn’t chosen you…and you can’t choose a dream spontaneously….this is probably the way to do it:

1. Make a list of things you are good at. (That's an empty list for me...if I do not consider cleaning my home slippers with a used, discarded toothbrush.)

2. Make a list of things that you enjoy doing. (That's a long list for me....but I am afraid, none of them can be a raw material for a useful, meaningful dream...I mean...I can't obviously dream of opening a club where people meet every evening after work...and talk while they clean their ears with ear buds! That's sick....but that's what I enjoy doing most apart from picking my teeth with a toothpick.)

3. Compare the two lists and make a list of common items. (No common items for me…I am not very good at doing things I enjoy doing…but I assume most people have at least a few in common).

4. Consider what’s doable, sustainable, interesting, acceptable, fits into your lifestyle smoothly , useful etc. (These are important because you must be able to pursue the dream and not give up either because it is boring, time consuming, not feasible, needs too many adjustments in your life style or is totally inappropriate or unacceptable [like most of mine are].)

5. Choose a dream.(This shouldn’t be too difficult if you have done steps 1 to 4 sincerely)

6. Do some research on how you can pursue your chosen dream. (For example, if you want to open a silver boutique (I know someone who has this beautiful dream)…invest some time in market research, talk to people who have been there and done that, get your facts and figures right…think about profit and loss and how that affects your life…think about your USP (unique selling point), think about how you can innovate etc.

7. Find some time every day to work towards your dream. (Every day is key here…because if you really want it…you need to work for it on a regular basis…and I can’t think of anything more regular than every day! Every hour or every minute would be too much…if you find yourself thinking about your dream every hour or every minute…wait for my next blog post on ‘How to find the right Obsession?’)

8. Live your dream. (Either on a part-time basis if it is something like writing a book…or on a full-time basis if it is something like opening a restaurant. Both my examples are not quite right…as you can be a full-time writer or a part-time restaurateur).

It is important to ‘have’ a dream…and sometimes just ‘having’ a dream justifies its existence. If you have thought about it….worked towards it…or simply visualized yourself in that picture-perfect moment of dream-turned-reality….I would say…you are doing quite well compared to your peers (like me).

But if you really want to achieve anything in life…(or just want to keep your job)….you must start with the very basics….that is…stop wasting time reading crappy blogs like mine…and get going!

P.S. I am not sure what impression I have conveyed about the ‘seriousness’ of my dream-search, but I would like to reiterate that I have been feeling pretty strongly about it and have been quite upset for not having a dream/hobby/passion. Those who understand my frustration…cry on my shoulder…. those who don’t…GO WATER YOUR SEED/PLANT/TREE (depending on which stage your dream is in.)

Life on Weekdays!

Click to enlarge...(or don't bother, you are not missing anything!)

The Dog

Walking through the sunny streets of Fremantle, I tried my best to ignore the American Bulldog that has been following me for a while. How weird I thought! Where is its owner? How could they let such a dangerous and expensive thing out on the street to stray by itself?

Thankfully, the Bubble Tea shop caught my attention. Bubble tea is the love of my life…though my friends find it hard to believe, saying that I discovered it only last week! ‘So what?’ I screamed out to them over dinner at Sam’s place. I have visited Fremantle three times since last week…and every time for Bubble Tea. I love the way it invites me for the first sip…the colorful bubbles battling for my attention, each wanting to travel up my straw before the other. Honestly, I connected with Bubble Tea, the way I never connected with anyone else. Now, why did they laugh at me when I said this? People are strange!

As the first group of bubbles cheered their way into my thirsty mouth, I saw it again from the corner of my eye. Panting, salivating, and still staring at me, was the American Bulldog. ‘Go away!’ I mumbled. It took two steps towards me…I backed off.

Strolling through the Fremantle market, I remembered that I had to pick up gifts for Rio. It was his birthday next week. Now what could excite a 2-yr old kid? I tried to think about my own likes and dislikes when I was two. Oh God! Was I ever two? Why can’t I remember it then? Damn, I should have kept a diary? What? A diary when I was two? At least Ma could have kept a log of some sort. That would make life so easy…especially buying gifts, or figuring out why Rio loves sucking his index finger, while other kids prefer their thumbs more. C’mon, there must be some reason. Never mind…that’s too long back…

I stopped at a shop selling hand-painted wooden wall pieces…especially the kinds that you hang outside the main door. You know what I mean? I picked up one that said ‘A cricketer and his catch live here.’ How wonderful! Amit was a cricketer long time back…maybe I should buy it for our home after all. Or maybe, I am a catch that he would rather have missed! Never mind, I will buy it anyway, I thought.

As I opened my wallet to bring out a 20 dollar bill, there it was….AT MY FEET…that American Bulldog….breathing heavily on my shoes! Christ! Do I move…do I pretend to be a statue? I froze. My ears steamed. I closed my eyes. After what appeared like a thousand years, I opened my eyes…it was gone! Hurrah! Feeling relieved, I ran away from the shop, not bothering to buy that stupid wall piece.

Feeling like I got a new life, I wandered through the green parks. Children playing, mothers reading parenting books, fathers dozing off…how amazing life was! I watched the river and the boats…the ones on sail…and the ones on sale too.

$350,000 – Call Jimmy at 0499447618

A boat for $350,000! I could get a decent house at that price. But what if I live in a boat? They were spacious enough for two. I could eat in it, sleep in it, fish from it, cook the fish in it…and also go to work in it! I could stop at the river bank by my office! What a wonderful idea! I must call Jimmy. As I dug through my bag to find my mobile, there it was again! The American Bulldog…looking violent…this time with its canines out…gnarling at me!

‘I haven’t harmed you! Go away! What do you want?’
It barked.
I fainted.

I woke up.
Amit staring at me…
‘Did I just have a weird dream?’…
‘Yes you did’, he said. ‘And you have been barking, crying, sipping and smiling all night!’

Later that day, when I tried to think what my dream could mean, I remembered that the last thing I talked about the night before, was recession!
Ah! The ownerless American Bulldog set free…

Diwali

Then...
The red ghagra-choli that Ma bought for me from 'Gariahat'
Baba and me with firecrackers
Ma lighting diyas in the balcony
Didi laughing with her friends in her room…
Relatives at home
Laddus from Haldiram’s
The small yellow lights on the ‘krishnachura’ tree…
‘Para’ friends calling out my name
‘Tubri’ show in the playground opposite our house
Friendly neighbors bringing in sweets and cheer…
Pouring ghee in the diyas in the middle of the night...

Now...
Sitting in office in my grey blazer…
Maybe Baba is watching from somewhere…
Is Ma lighting a diya today? Does she remember it’s Diwali?
Didi in office too…probably in her grey blazer
Relatives far away and distant…some dead
Boiled veggies for lunch…some packaged food for dinner
Some strange trees…the names unknown
Few friends…some acquaintances…many strangers around
I will light a lavender-scented candle tonight…
And wait for some magic….
Perhaps a whiff of ghee…from somewhere…

I caught a disease...

No, not the kind that would:

• Be the subject matter of a contemporary movie making a ‘statement’


• Interest NGO workers


• Promote the use of rubber


• Make people talk


• Give my husband a shock

Sorry to disappoint you all….I caught hay fever.

(Allergic rhinitis, known as hay fever, is caused by pollens of specific seasonal plants, airborne chemicals and dust particles in people who are allergic to these substances.)

It renewed my interest in pollination, something that I last thought of in my Biology class in school. Well…not really. I had also given it a thought when I took to gardening one summer vacation. There was this horrible looking rose plant that refused to flower. I had given two suggestions to my mother, who, on hearing them, gave up her deepest wish of seeing me become a doctor someday. I had asked her if we could buy some butterflies and leave them on the plant…or better still, train my pet parrot to fly out of the cage, get some damn pollen from somewhere…and make the damn plant flower!

So that’s how close I got to pollination in my life…and that’s how close my mother got to being called the mother of a doctor. My mother had given up on my sister long before this incident, when she opted out of Biology as her sixth subject and took up Home Science instead. Later my sister complained that there was a lot of Biology in Home Science as well, as she had to remember the names of indoor and outdoor plants.

(I sometimes fear that if life comes full circle, I will be punished with two equally hopeless daughters…That reminds me, I need to ask how my husband was in Biology.)

Anyway, hay fever has made a Niagara out of my nose. I shed more water than I drank in my life (or hope to drink in the remaining days of my life). I walk around with a natural clown-nose, a box of tissues, and a nasal spray. I have lost three of my fully working senses…taste, hearing and smell (my vision having deserted me long back, when I turned myopic). Of the only remaining sense,’ touch’…well, with all the other senses gone or diminished, I don’t see much use of it. (Moreover, most people are avoiding any kind of ‘touch’ with me, thinking I am contagious, though I am not. Even if I was, trust me dear reader, you won’t catch it from my blog. I have a firewall installed!)

This poor-sensory existence wasn’t all that bad if my friends hadn’t decided to cook biriyani, eat out at KFC, go perfume shopping and visit the tulip garden all while I was unwell. Tulip garden! For god’s sake…that would be a pretty polinical party where I would probably hear one pollen grain saying to another “Let’s check out the new chicks that landed on the yellow tulips today.” OR “Hey, nice powder you are wearing!”

Friends are for tough times…yeah sure, to make it tougher!! Urrrggghhh!!

Hay fever taught me more than just the most decent way of blowing my nose in public. It opened my eyes to the five friends I have in this country…and the five senses I never stopped to think about.

Ode to My T-Zone

After quite a bit of contemplation, I decided that the T-zone is the most important part of my body.
If you haven’ t wasted enough time reading the Beauty Sections of Women’s Magazines, which 'zonify' the body as if you were a corpse in an anatomy class, you may not be familiar with the term T-zone.
For the convenience of such mortals, here is the meaning of T-zone:
‘If you were to draw a line through your forehead, nose, and chin, it would look like the letter "T" — hence, the commonly used beauty term, the T-Zone’.

If you ask me, I do not support such ‘zonification’. If I drew a T-shaped line through any other part of my body (for example, a line from one shoulder to the other, and a middle line stretching to the belly), even that would look like a ‘T’, wouldn’t it? So why follow such logic? Moreover, this whole concept of likening body parts to the characters in the alphabet system is quite obscene (characters like V and O are not things we want to talk about much).
Anyway, such ancient concepts cannot be changed by ludicrous bloggers. So I will not challenge it. Now that we are all in the same boat (sorry, zone), let me explain why I glorify my T-zone.

Well, firstly, I believe in glorifying the enemy. My migraines are my greatest enemies. They originate in my forehead and spread through the other zones of my head, my neck, my shoulder, my mood and consequently my husband’s head and mood.

The T-zone provides support to my spectacles. Now, my spectacles are the best and the worst thing that ever happened to me. Best because, I could still see if my sister was keeping the bigger piece of chocolate for herself. Worst because I could also see what the mad Physics teacher wrote on the blackboard, which I was supposed to copy on my notebook. So I give credit to my T-zone for turning me to a visionary (Oh! Can’t I use the word ‘visionary’ for one who has vision? Can’t I? Who says so?).

My T-zone is also a very seasonal in nature. It oils in summer and flakes in winter. Isn’t that helpful? I have never watched the weather forecast since I discovered this.

The T-zone also hosts the nose. My nose isn’t quite pretty. But I don’t mind it. It bears the scar of a wound that I picked up when I fell down on a terrace in Puri, while trying to chase a cousin who stole my chewing gum (un-chewed one). I still hate that cousin and the scar reminds me of my heroic chase… my ONLY attempt at heroism.

My mouth also falls in the T-zone. Needless to say, my mouth helps me a lot. It talks, tastes and breathes for me when my nose is blocked. In short, it does all that I need to survive…talk, taste and breathe.

As for my chin, people say, my granny gave it to me. That’s a feature I inherited from her (I wouldn’t have, if I had a choice). It’s longer than necessary, making me a victim of chin-pulling aunts and uncles all my childhood. Nevertheless, it reminds me of my granny, who was the last sane person in my family.

So there you go…my T-zone reigns as the undisputed monarch of a very large kingdom (yes, I am quite a fat woman). Till I find anything against it, I have decided to give it the respect it deserves. So here’s a blog post dedicated to my T-zone (and the T-zones of all others who agree with me on this).

My first NRI pujo...(Part 1)

October 2008: If there was a traffic police in the land of clocks and watches, ‘time’ would have had to pay a huge fine for speeding last weekend.

Skipping Ponchomi , pujo started with Shoshti on Saturday. Unfortunately it did not last for a day….as it had to make space for Shaptami…which squeezed in and lived its life through Saturday evening. Sunday was a 3-in-one day. It started as Ashtami….changed its mind by late morning and posed as Nabami…..and then it suddenly changed colors and pretended to be Dashami!

As we made our way into Karidinya Community Centre, Perth, my radar beeped out loud. A techno voice hummed in my ear, saying ‘Bongs detected….bongs detected. Please turn right at the gate, adjust the pallu of your not-so-well-clad saree and put on a 5cm smile’. I obeyed. Not quite so. Sometimes I smiled 6.5 cm as well. And one time I remember yawning for 10 seconds. Will I be disqualified for that?

Anyway, the goddess was pretty and gorgeous as ever. Resplendent in her golden attire, blessing all those who paused to pray…and even those who didn’t. The lion too seemed to be feeling quite at home in the land of koalas and kangaroos. No matter what…Bengalis live up to their roots and culture. How you ask? Well, the anjali that was to start at 9:30am, started at 11:00 am. Weren’t we always known for our punctuality?

As I held the red and green kangaroo paw during anjali, I felt funny. No, there are no red and green kangaroos in Australia. It’s the name of a popular flower in Western Australia. I missed the marigolds and ‘bel pata’ back home…the flowers and leaves I used from my first anjali till my 26th (ooops did I just give out my age?) But I told myself, flowers are flowers….just like pujo is pujo. Back home, my ears had got familiar with certain words that the purohit chanted during anjali. My friends and I played our secret game during anjali…of letting our tongues twist in our mouths as we tried to copy the purohit’s Sanskrit accent. This time the chant was unfamiliar, as the purohit was a South Indian…and no amount of twisting tongues in my mouth could help me get his crisp Sanskrit accent.

So I kept mute and prayed. At the end of it, the red and green kangaroo paws were collected in baskets from Ikea and the ‘shanti-jol’ sprinkled in abundance. As I let my eyes scan the ‘mandap’, I rejoiced at the sight and smell of chandan flavoured incense sticks, the fruit-filled trays of ‘prasad’, the coconut in one corner adorned with ‘sindoor’, the grains of basmati rice on a plate. In the midst of these familiar things, my eyes stopped at something that I had never seen back home…a Brownes milk packet flaunting the picture of a fat Australian black and white cow.

Shifting my attention from bos taurus to homo sapiens, I looked at the people in the hall. Colourful sarees, bright jewelry, fab-india kurtas, the sound of laughter, the whiff of Cool-Water perfume. My heart heaved a sigh of relief at the sight. How different would these people look on Monday on their way to office? I remembered my first day I went for work in Perth. I looked at the office-goers and had spent a moment or two imagining what the city looked like from a bird’s eye view. A land where black dots moved around in a great rush! Most of them wore black! Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday!

Making my way through the colourful crowd, I found a familiar face. That’s when I smiled that 6.5 cm smile I mentioned earlier. I spoke to Sonali, a friend of a friend, and now my friend. She and her husband Anirban introduced me to many others. I answered the same questions 14.5 times ‘How long have you been in Perth?’ and ‘Are you here on a work visa or a permanent residence?’ (The last .5 time was when someone went away without stopping to hear my answers).

Anyway, not a bad start I thought, thanks to Sonali. At least now I know a few names…and faces (though I struggled to remember the relationship between the names and the faces). In the food queue, I overheard some people talking of home loans and rising mortgages, investment properties and the mines that they have been to lately for work. I have had to familiarise myself with geology and mines since I moved to Perth. So I quickly remembered something I read a while ago about the relationship between mines and mortgages, which I had interpreted in my amateur mind to be something like ‘More mines, would mean more mortgage rates’. The excerpt from the actual piece I read is: ‘Perth, Darwin and regional Queensland towns are the new boom areas thanks to the resources explosion. The biggest single influence on Australian real estate right now is the resources boom. The only property markets really firing are those affected by overseas demand for commodities. While markets such as Sydney and Melbourne struggle, prices soar in Western Australia, the Northern Territory and regional Queensland.’

With a plate full of ‘khichudi’, ‘labda’, ‘chatni’, ‘papad’ and ‘pantua’ I made my way to the open space outside the hall, where people were fewer, and empty chairs more. As I put a lump of khichudi in my mouth, my ears smoked, my face turned red, and my tongue burnt. It was too hot! I cursed myself for not waiting till it got colder. I made a circle with my mouth to emit the warm air trapped inside. As my eyes followed the faint line of smoke that I emitted, they met another pair of eyes staring down at me. These eyes belonged to, (what I believe) a footy player. There was a footy party at the hall adjacent to ours. There were these young blonde guys in green jerseys sipping cold beer at the entrance of that hall. They looked at me with great amusement and curiosity, taking turns to wonder at my attire, the sindoor on my forehead, the food on my plate, my red face and my smoky mouth. Caught unguarded, I took 20 seconds to decide what my reaction to them should be. I had decided to pretend that I was following a new stylish way of eating hot Indian food, by emitting smoke from my mouth instead of letting the food cool down on the plate itself. I tried to put up that pretence. They smiled at me politely and said ‘Hi’. I managed to gather the remnants of my shattered self-image and greeted them back. After this mini tragedy, I decided to walk back into the hall where there would be no green jerseys… perhaps a few green kanjivarams.

To be continued…

My first NRI pujo...(Part 2)

Back in the hall, I felt strangely secure. Amit wanted another ‘jilipi’, so he trotted to the food queue again. Sanjana, Sonali’s 5 yr old daughter, was most helpful. She got us chairs to sit on, which is a luxury in the crowd. But the problem was, we couldn’t stop her till she got all the chairs she could lay her hands on. So there we were…four-and-a-half people and 14 chairs, smiling embarrassed at those who wondered at our compulsive-chair-collection syndrome.

With a belly full of ‘khichudi’ and eyes full of ‘bheto-bangalir-dupurer-ghum’ (the afternoon naps that Bengalis are particularly fond of), we decided to head home, only to come back a few hours later.

In the evening, it was time for some serious ‘bhakti’ with ‘dhunurchi naach’ (a particular kind of dance in front of the deity in which it is assumed that the deity isn’t watching…as most of those dance steps these days are neither pious nor decent…at least most of the times). So we watched people dance to the beat of the ‘dhaak’. The smoke-filled hall reminded me of my ‘para pujo’, where year after year, Nitai da won the first prize for ‘dhunurchi naach’, as he could balance three dhunurchis at once: two in his hands and one on his chin. I missed my friends back home and all the fun we had on Dashami…the truck full of enthusiastic people dancing their way for the ‘bhashan’ (immersion of the goddess).

But I couldn’t complain. I had already made some cool new friends. Sonali, Anirban and their daughter Sanjana were a great company to have (especially when I found out that Anirban makes amazing kebabs and Sonali cooks awesome fish curry). As the evening ended with the community dinner consisting of ‘luchi’, ‘begun bhaja’, ‘alu dum’, ‘pulao’, ‘chatni’, ‘mishti’, we planned to meet for breakfast the next morning at our place.
After a continental breakfast of cheese burger, bacon, scrambled eggs, sausages, tomatoes and mushrooms, we headed for the pujo hall again. On our way, we stopped at Anirban’s place, wondered at his beautiful house, rejected his offer of beer, and took a ride on Sanjana’s swing in the lawn.

Back in the hall…more people…and more colours, as it was time for sindoor-khela (a tradition in which married women spill sindoor on other people’s wives…including Lord Shiva’s wife, Durga). Obviously, this tradition makes a good photo-session event…as husbands click pictures of their wives…and other people’s wives as well!

Anyway, for me, the sindoor khela reminded me of the Holi excitement (except that there were no water-filled balloons, which I generally love shooting at others). I screamed at Amit for not carrying his handkerchief with which I could wipe my red face (I need to admit that generally there is no space in his pockets to carry even a toothpick, as I usually use his pockets as my handbag…and stuff it up with stuff you would typically find in a lady’s handbag (well…not all of it, of course).

A kind lady took pity and offered me some tissues. And that was the start of yet another great friendship! Enter Priyanka, Suprotim, and their 8-month old daughter Rheanna. It seemed as if we were long lost sisters…sharing common surnames, ancestral roots, house locations in Kolkata, dislike for cooking, love for watching movies ‘back-to-back’ all night, among many other things!
So our new gang…Sonali & family, Priyanka & family and Amit & wife …enjoyed the rest of the pujo. We watched Antakshari in the evening and danced to popular Bollywood music. Amit even did the unthinkable…served food at the community dinner! What a performance that was!

Back home, today (October 9, 2008) is Dashami. But we were in a time machine last weekend and have already been there…done that. In fact, we did a lot more since then. Our gang met each day this week at Priyanka’s house after work…and celebrated pujo and our new found friendship….with booze, ‘adda’, KFC, ‘luchi’ and ‘pathar mangsho’ (not all on the same day, of course).

We still haven’t overcome our pujo hangover…and I doze in front of my computer at work these days…waiting for it to be 5 pm, when I can rush for Priyanka’s house for yet another great evening. Anyway, another weekend is almost here…and this Saturday, it’s time for the official Bijoya Sanmelani organized by BAWA (Bengali Association of Western Australia). Bijoya or no bijoya…we are sure to have many more ‘sanmelanis’. So we have slightly modified the popular ‘asche bochor abar hobe’ to ‘asche weekend abar hobe’…as that’s what life is all about away from our homelands…living our weekends as if there is no Monday!